You wear an elegant, off-the-shoulder sequined dress—sparkling, even in monochrome. In your left hand is a small bouquet of white roses. Your right hand rests gently on mine.
We are gazing at each other with affection, both smiling softly—it’s a candid and heartfelt demonstration of connection.
The setting is outdoors, beside Kapunda’s duck pond. In the background gum trees contemplate while the island’s soft, weeping branches add to the serene, almost dreamlike atmosphere. Late afternoon light filtering through bathes everything in tranquil reverence.
As kids, how many times had you and I walked, rode or driven here? It was always evocative but I dared not imagine it as a setting for such a photograph.
You exude warmth, elegance, and joy. Even in the black-and-white image, you are catching the autumnal light. Your hair is styled in soft waves, loosely pinned back with a natural, graceful finish that frames your face with an artful, effortless beauty. As you look up at me, beside you, you have a luminous smile and your expression is one of affection and contentment. Your face, as well-known to me as my own thoughts, is wholly familiar but somehow brand-new.
With this, my world is remade.
Your posture—relaxed, leaning slightly into our embrace—conveys ease and deep correlation to this instant. The sparkle of the dress, paired with the tenderness in your eyes, contributes an almost cinematic glow. There’s an attractive balance of glamour and surrender in your appearance, making the scene striking.
We had a timeless and profound minute—the photo’s composition accentuates love and natural beauty.
Your face is turned slightly toward me, and you’re looking with a warm, affectionate smile. There’s a calm confidence in your gaze—you look truly content and immersed. You are muse and memory, myth and moment.
For this moment, my life had been a faltering, often uncertain rehearsal.
On this day of orchestration and meticulous planning and staging it is an improvised tableau. A reverential moment at a childhood location. Late afternoon you and I drove past and were drawn to this poignant place. An intermezzo between the ceremony and the reception. It is a place that catches the magical narrative of our wedding.
And here, in this quiet place, is where the light found us.
Well, the South side of Chicago is the baddest part of town And if you go down there, you better just beware Of a man named Leroy Brown Now, Leroy, more than trouble You see, he stands, about, six foot four All the downtown ladies call him ‘Treetop Lover’ All the men just call him ‘Sir’
We were beneficiaries of Kapunda High being a progressive school with teachers who were innovative. When I was in Year 11, vertical homegroups became part of the ongoing reform and this meant students from Years 8, 9 and 10 joined us in the Home Economics Centre under Mrs. Trinne’s watchful and occasionally fierce eye. This arrangement was representative of our bold education.
Mr. Schell was influential in setting up a daily fitness programme. Every day we’d have a different activity and the entire school would rotate through these, including all the staff. Most of this happened on the oval. But one memorable— if haunting session— was scheduled weekly in the former stables.
It’s called the Health Hustle, comprised three or four songs and each tune had a set workout routine. Our class members would claim their space on the rough concrete floor of the Stables and Schelly played the songs on a boombox. For some in our class this was fun and for others like me, it marked the beginning of my descent into dancephobia!
Technically, it’s known as chorophobia and yes, I’ve been attending the Monday meetings for many, many years. No, not really but to describe my dancing as uncoordinated would be a gigantic underrepresentation.
The mere mention today of Health Hustle prompts Claire and Trish to leap up from their otherwise comfy chairs and give a hilarious recreation of me feebly trying to dance in the stables all those years ago. All done with uncontrollable laughter. Look! There they go mimicking me and my tangle of disobedient, droopy limbs. Arrythmia not of the heart but of the body. Still, our friendship, if not my choreography, flourished.
Catching the opening notes of ‘Mickey’ or ‘Teach Your Children’ nowadays I’m sure many of the class of ‘83 also have a Pavlovian response that causes them to break into those deeply embedded routines. But I somehow retain affection for the Chicago gangster jaunt of ‘Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.’ The marriage of the Scorsese lyrics and the wide-eyed piano stomp is terrific.
He got a custom Continental He got an El Dorado too He got a 32 gun in his pocket full a fun He got a razor in his shoe
*
Resuming our drone flight over Kapunda, we’re now on the Main Street and peer under the veranda of Rawady’s Deli. Pausing at the front window we see sporting team sheets sticky-taped to the glass. Handwritten names on a paper footy oval or for cricket, a list of eleven boys along with details of when and where. If it was a summer’s Saturday morning, there’d be a white huddle on the veranda, ready to head to Eudunda or Angaston or maybe Truro.
Gazing further into the shop we witness a constant flurry of activity behind and in front of the long counter. Reg is moving about, helping people with his baritone that always seemed too large for his tiny frame while out the back Brian’s endlessly cooking chips in the deep fryer. Rawady’s Deli was the town’s heartbeat and epicentre for much communal good.
On any given day, my Mum or sister, Jill could be working or it might be Claire making me a post-cricket milkshake. If I was in there with Greggy Higgins getting mixed lollies before Thursday afternoon RE with Mrs. Schultz at the former convent then we’d see this transaction-
‘Yes, thanks. Can I have ten cobbers?’
‘Sure.’ Ten cobbers would then be shoved into the white paper bag by someone like Eli. ‘Okay. What’s next?’
‘How about some of those red ones?’
‘Which ones?’ This question would emerge from deep in the lolly cabinet. A headless voice.
Greggy would sometimes say, ‘See where your hand is? Not there. Over to your left.’ We’d then both giggle.
‘Okay. These?’ An impatient finger would point at a box of bananas or teeth or red snakes.
‘No. Not my left. Your left.’
We then fly down the street to the outskirts of town and the Esso service station. A man of relentless motion like the Rawady brothers, the owner, Rex Draper was also a Musical Society devotee. Like Rawady’s Deli many locals worked there. The girl fourth from the left (here too), Damian Trotta (still there) Nevvy Ellis, Grantley Dodman— who called himself a petroleum transfer engineer—and for about six years, me.
Most Sundays around six my cousin Paul ‘Boogly’ Ryan would drive in, piloting his HQ Holden Kingswood. Hearing him before I saw his car, he’d cruise past Trotta’s Hardware and swing up the volume on his Kenwood stereo and it blasted across the dusty, otherwise tranquil townscape. This ritual always made me laugh.
We were massive fans of the Rolling Stones and knew how cool they were. From their last great album, Tattoo You, ‘Slave’ was a blues jam and part of our shared vernacular. It was always greeted with nodding heads and wry smiles.
Do it, do it, do it, do it, do it Do it, do it, do it, do it
Don’t wanna be your slave Don’t wanna be your slave Don’t wanna be your slave
Let’s zoom in now as a sinister black motorbike has rumbled onto the forecourt of Rex’s servo and shuddered noisily to a stop. In 1983 full driveway service was expected. Fill her up, check the oil and tyres, clean the windshield. I recall my utter terror when a bikie—always fat and gruff and menacing—would scowl before murmuring instructions to me. This was scarier. Their lifeless eyes always hidden by impenetrably black sunglasses.
He’d order, ‘Fill it up.’ I’d gulp, knowing what was next. My hands shaking as I eased the now unwittingly weaponised nozzle into the tank of the Harley. Brain surgery would’ve been less intimidating. They’d often be returning from a day trip to Cadell Prison. He’d then whisper in a barely disguised death-threat. ‘Don’t spill any on the tank. I’ve just had it repainted.’
Of course. These feckers had always just repainted their tank. They lived only for their Harleys. They didn’t have lives or hobbies or volunteer to goal umpire the junior colts. Just repainting the fecking tank on their fecking murder machines.
*
Late in 1983 we had our final school social. These were terrific fun and the last dance was always ‘Hotel California.’ With the duelling guitar solo still ringing out as the lights came up in the Parish Hall, Davo, Chrisso, and I pointed my sky-blue HR Holden towards our friend Stephen’s unit in Plympton where we spent the night.
The next day was Friday and our last at Kapunda High. Some like Chrisso didn’t appear fussed and Paul Hansberry was already working at the silos for the summer. I remembered my first day in year 8 when I was scared at what high school would hold. Now, on our concluding day I was scared at what life beyond school might hold as the world opened up in vast and uncertain ways.
I’m quite sure I didn’t thank my teachers—Mrs. Schultz, Miss Searle, Ali Bogle (she was young so didn’t have an honorific, sorry), Mr Krips and Mr. McCarthy. Macca—who would speak at the footy club wedding reception Claire and I would have many years into the future. So, I thank them now.
Trish and Claire and Belly and Lisa and Davo and Penny and Chrisso and Crackshot and I would’ve said things like this to each other-
‘Well, we’re done. See you round.’
‘Bye, you.’ Accompanied by a friendly punch and a grin.
‘I’ll see you soon, probably before Christmas.’
And that was it.
I didn’t realise it then but Kapunda High—indeed the entire town—had prepared me well. They had accomplished that most miraculous feat, the very thing that every day drives our teachers, parents and coaches. Despite our frequent resistance, they persevered. They had helped create our lives.
1983 was soon replaced and off we all went. Uni, the air force, nursing, work. The world was waiting. Kapunda High had been great.
Gundry’s Hill is the natural place for it to commence with its views across our undulating town. There’s St Roses’ spire, a patchwork of roofs, and the silos standing quietly down near the road to Freeling. The vista is smeared green from the trees lining Clare Road, Mildred Street, and Hill Street which is home to the ancient playground and its old black steam train.
We’re now above Dutton Park and its fetching oval protected by those silent eucalypts. If we listen carefully, we can hear the Mickans chuckling and telling stories. It’s a short flight then to the Duck Pond and if it’s a weekend evening there might be half a dozen cars parked haphazardly on the southern bank, near Dermody Petroleum. There are teenagers draped all across the lawns. My friends. From the tape deck of a car, possibly a Gemini or a Kingswood, you hear this soulful song
Karma, karma, karma, karma, karma chameleon You come and go You come and go Loving would be easy if your colours were like my dreams Red, gold, and green Red, gold, and green
We then zip over to the swimming pool. On this hot afternoon we see dotted on the grass untidy groups of kids. Zoom in and they’re munching on Bush Biscuits or a Zooper Dooper before running to the diving board. From this they leap off aiming desperately and adolescently at the canteen, run long-sufferingly by Mrs. Chappell. They try to splash her by doing a storkie, arsey or a coffin. They’re tiresome but determined. The supervisor—an elderly Englishman—yells to the skinny boys, ‘Pack it in!’ They ignore him but he yells again. ‘Pack it in or you’ll have a rest for five minutes!’
A short journey and we pause over the Pizza Bar on the Main Street. Johnny Guzzo is the boss. Again, inside there’s some of the town’s youth and they’re huddled about the Formica tables. Some spill onto the footpath, weighted by black duffle coats and ripple boots. With P plates blutacked to their windows, assorted cars lined up outside. There’s a knot of motorbikes too.
Inside by the windows and next to the pinball machines, a mate’s trying for his best ever score on Frogger. He’s trying to cross the river on logs and—be careful—skip over on the backs of hopefully drowsy crocodiles. But he gets munched and the game’s over. He thumps the glass top of the arcade machine. Johnny’s throwing pizza dough up into ever widening circles and hears the racket. ‘Hey! Do that again and I kicka you out!’
It’s 1983 and for one group of kids, they’re in year 12. Seventeen is an age when much happens but you’re no longer a child and not yet an adult. It’s a fraught, fantastic time. Let’s zoom in and see who they are.
*
Here’s Kapunda High’s class of 1983. There’s only thirteen of us although this was boosted by the subsequent return of one Paul Masters, and arrival of Eriko, our Japanese exchange student. Then, of course, most of the fifty-odd who began with us in year 8 had left school for a job. Year 12 was matriculation which meant qualifying for university. It an innocent and wonderous time.
This photo was taken on the croquet lawn at the front of the school. I never saw any croquet but sitting on its grass under the autumn sun was calming and peaceable. And it’s such a picturesque setting that a few short decades later it was where the girl fourth from the left and I would be married. No other location presented itself.
There were only fifteen of us, but I thought us an unruly collective. All day long we laughed and yelled and interrupted each other. Thirty years on, talking in the footy club with Macca—our beloved History teacher Paul McCarthy—he told me we were, ‘bright and well-behaved. A really great group.’ In 1983 I sat in a corner next to Chrisso and Davo and we did much together.
Claire and Trish and I had long enjoyed our triangular friendship, and this continued. There were a couple of classmates with whom I barely exchanged words. I didn’t dislike them; we just had little in common and I hope they’re happy and well.
*
Our matric centre was at the front of the school just near the croquet lawn. It was down the cement steps and in Kidman’s bequeathed mansion, Eringa, it had been a servant’s bedroom. A tiny room, it could only fit ten or a dozen of us around the little student tables.
A blackboard hung to the side and an old gas heater sat above the mantle and we’d use it to toast sandwiches until we weren’t permitted. A corridor ran around two of the walls and our individual carrells were lined up there. How lucky that we had our own private desks? Much of our year was spent at these.
In that little classroom we’d conversations which influenced us. Mrs. Schultz, our gentle and wise English teacher, chaperoned us through The Grapes of Wrath with the Joads as they made their emblematic and weighty way from Oklahoma to California through the Mojave Desert.
I recall my terror as she and Trish talked at length about the novel’s symbolism, focusing upon the turtle crossing a highway and how it represented struggle, determination, and hope. Committed to making my own life difficult, I read many Steinbeck novels over the summer and loved them. But, of course, I didn’t finish the compulsory Grapes of Wrath, and generally only saw the turtle as a turtle.
Our Australian History teacher, Mr. Krips, escorted us through a study of our national identity and the apotheosis of the nomad tribe. I’d not encountered the word apotheosis before. It wasn’t used on the cricket, even by Richie Benaud or by Graham Kennedy on Blankety Blanks. It impressed me and I vowed to keep it in my vocabulary as I thought it could have future value. I swiftly forgot it.
Of equal value was the extra-curricular stuff we learnt from our teachers. The girl fourth from the left and Trish always had enthusiasm for curating our experiences and so set up communal diaries in big scrap books. Quickly becoming known as the Crap Books, these enjoyed daily entries, with some contributing more than others. Occasionally Kripsy did too. How great was he? Early in the year he noted the discovery of a musical gem.
Last night I saw Marvin Gaye on TV singing, ‘Sexual Healing’ which was terrific. What a voice! What a performance!
It is a great tune and now when I hear it I instantly think of Kripsy and that tiny, windowless classroom. I hear it with fondness for my classmates and teachers and that fleeting, singular time and place.
Get up, get up, get up, get up Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up
Oh, baby now let’s get down tonight!
*
The Coorong is a distance from Kapunda, south of the mouth of the Murray. Until our matric year, school camps had been breezy and amusing affairs. More like holidays than educational experiences. As we had to study both a science and a humanities subject, I found myself in Biology and had to undertake a special personal project. For reasons which over time have only become more bleakly absurd, I was about to immerse myself in the heady, sparkling world of Banksias.
Yes, my teenaged fantasies were all becoming real. I would undertake a vegetation transect. It’s not, however, as glamorous as it sounds.
We stayed in rustic accommodation with Mr. Zanker and Miss Searle. Curiously, I would work with Mr. Zanker decades later at Marryatville High where I taught his daughter in year 12. In 1983, there were about eight of us in Biology and we drove down on Sunday. I recollect none of the journey.
It was cold and grey but one night by a shared metal sink I had a novel experience. One of my classmates, the girl fourth from the left, leant towards me, giggling, and announced, ‘Hey you. Listen to this!’ A brief subterranean rumble followed. We both collapsed into laughter. It was the first time I’d heard a girl fart.
This remains the clear highlight of that camp.
Monday morning was grim and wretched, and it began to rain. I was utterly alone in the middle of a forest of banksias. My task was to measure all sorts of variables like tree height, number of banksia flowers, distance between trees, and other things too hideously dull to itemise for you now.
Until then I think I was a kid who just got on with stuff. But this was new for it was an obligation in which I had zero interest. It was a necessity and there was no escape. I sat on the wet ground and my bum became damp. Three more days of this! I reckon it was the first time in my life I was truly bored. Even now I twitch if I see a Banksia. They’re for life, not just the Coorong.
It gave me a glimpse into the dark world of adulthood responsibility. I didn’t like it.
It’s of significant joy to me that you’re teaching yourself the guitar. I love your discipline in playing each night and how fully you immerse yourself in it. You practice with patience and skill, clearly striving to be the best guitarist you can be.
I really enjoy hearing Jeff Buckley’s ‘Lover, You Should’ve Come Over’ and then some chunky blues riffs filling up the house. Your insight into the technical aspects is mightily impressive too. Arpeggio. Capo. Chromatic. This shows me just how deeply invested you are.
I’m completely confident that you’re transferring these skills and successes to other areas of your life. Music is of tremendous benefit to us when we listen, discuss, and in your case, actually make it too. You are living this positive behaviour, Max.
I hoped that going to the Led Zeppelin documentary would be interesting but also inspirational. I hope it has been for you! I anticipate eagerly the next steps for you as a musician which might include forming a band with friends like Levi. I know you’re looking for a bassist and a singer. You could be the vocalist yourself! I would love to be at your first gig!
What about the tremendous learning that’s come from your job? Pasta Go Go has been excellent for you and I can see multiple benefits regarding responsibility, teamwork, hard labour, managing your money, self-assurance, and thinking about your future. I also like that this is a connection between you and Alex.
You also seem to have strong self-awareness about this and understand both your strengths and areas for improvement as an employee. Well done! I was especially impressed that you took a shift at Henley Beach when you didn’t know the venue or any of the other workers. I’m sure this made your boss rapt too. These are the kinds of choices that build character and confidence—ones that will serve you well in life.
Like the guitar, this job experience is a positive indicator for your future as well. It makes me both proud of and excited for you.
I said to you a few weeks ago how compared to last year you are now in many ways unrecognisable. Your growth and advancing maturity are hugely pleasing, and this is also evident at school. Attendance, application, and achievement are all vastly improved with B grades thus far in 2025 across all subjects!
Wednesday mornings are a symbol of the new Max. Now, you get up at 7am, ride to the gym and then meet friends before school actually starts. You are harnessing the late start as an opportunity for fitness and fun. I’m delighted in your approach to this.
It was well over a decade ago that you gave us the immortal line, ‘I’m cooler than a robot, older than the wolf.’ One of the highlights of our Sydney trip was the ferry ride across the harbour to Manly. As we rode up and down the towering waves and you saw the small leisure craft bouncing around on the massive swell you remarked to Alex and me how you, ‘Hope on that boat they didn’t leave any eggs out on the bench.’
As I stop the car in the national park, wistfulness arrives. I’m in the Adelaide Hills for the park run event at the old Belair golf course.
The landscape’s changed. I’ve changed too.
On my previous visit around the change of millennium it was a lush and brilliant sea green and rightly respected as a golfing postcard. That day my leisure buddies were chaps I went to school with from our hometown of Kapunda.
Crackshot. Puggy. Bobby.
I love the pre-run buzz as clusters of runners collect and dissolve, collect and dissolve. Much anticipatory and animated chatter. At the bottom of a brown hill two hundred of us congregate on the parched apron.
Belair golf course was closed about a decade back. The clubhouse is also gone—replaced by the bumps and swooping curves of a BMX track. I recall post-round beers on its balcony overlooking the final hole and watching other groups approaching the green. We’d admire the parabola of a successful shot but also feel solidarity with those spraying into the foliage. Our conversation might’ve gone thus:
‘That’s a nice shot into the green. Just like yours, Puggy,’
‘Let’s hope he doesn’t three putt as well.’
‘Harsh. How many balls did you hit out of bounds today, Mickey?’
‘Careful. Whose buy?’
‘Crackshot’s.’
I remember playing the Friday after my graduation; a mild winter’s day in 1988. These were good times. My world was necessarily opening up, but the Belair golf course remained a comforting, occasional alcove.
*
Our 5k run begins with an alarmingly steep climb up the 18th. The track’s loose with sandy rubble so I watch my feet. The Run Director had cautioned the throng: ‘It’s a trail and most weeks someone comes to grief.’ Despite this his briefing was generous and encouraged a cuddly sense of togetherness.
We then cut across half a dozen holes and it’s frequently 4WD terrain. Among the inclines and undulating gum forest we’re sheltered from the wind but it’s nonetheless demanding.
At the teardrop turn, we swivel and retrace our steps. As always, there’s a broken stream of elite runners who skate ahead and illuminate the way.
It was nostalgic and my old affection for the course surged. The golf holes remain and some of the greens are now home to frisbee golf buckets and nets. So, it’s still golf Jim, but not as I know it.
Kangaroos hop here and there or lounge about indifferently like (muscular) bogans in Bali. They still own the place.
Scampering across the ex-fairways, I was teleported back decades and considered The Great Gatsby. I appreciated those, ‘riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart’ and could almost hear the ghostly rifle crack of an errant Hot Dot clunking onto a gum tree trunk— accompanied by a groan and paddock language.
Pushing along beneath the trees and through the balmy shade, I wondered about the lost world of my youth. Where had it and the verdant fairways gone? Here I was in my new (parkrun) life but was there loss and also emergent reward?
Is the past really a distant, gaseous planet and we’re forever marooned on Earth? TS Eliot once wrote:
Time and the bell have buried the day, the black cloud carries the sun away.
Perhaps he was right. Or perhaps the past never fully leaves us. No to all that, for my life (now) is radiant, kaleidoscopic, and rich.
I’d enjoyed peering into my youth on this parkrun which had masqueraded as a museum tour. Was I sad the old golf course was gone? Yes, but I was happy for the fun of playing there with childhood friends when a lazy afternoon could be gladly lost on the fairways.
Tumbling back down the final hole, I collapse through the finish gate. Hands on hips, I pull in some air and gaze about Saturday’s temperate, misty morning.
On my way back to the car I hear (I think) a percussive burst of spectral golf club on ball.
I’m about seven. We—Mum and Dad and my sister, Jill— were visiting people at their Yorke Peninsula shack. I don’t recall the afternoon’s crabbing but gathering later about a table in the childhood-hot evening. On it were long necks of Southwark while a black and white tele flickered against the fibro. The adults bashed the crimson crabs and busted open the tepid claws.
I could smell vinegar.
This table was Formica and from the 60’s—today doubtless worth a minor fortune with its chrome trim and retro mint top.
Just like the elegantly vintage tables now out the back of The Wheaty, Adelaide’s finest music pub. A large floor lamp’s on the side of the stage—turned off and quiet. Bulbous, orange lightshades dangle from the ceiling, evoking Disco Inferno and its eleven-minute polyester frenzy. Galvanised iron clads the northern wall. The space represents as a twilight Sunday backyard crossed with a 70’s lounge room.
I can almost smell fondue.
Pizza (pepperoni) from the food van and craft beers are our prelude. Their website boasts there’s, ‘no skinny lagers or low-carb blands.’
We’re here for Dave Graney and Clare Moore.
*
The funniest nominal group in music is at the end of this verse. Using the head noun: cowboy it employs pre-modifiers in an amusing string of adjectives. It’s central to Rock ‘n’ Roll Is Where I Hide—a narrative song that’s part stand-up routine, part wish fulfilment.
Anyway People started to talk Started to talk about this Legendary mysterious loudmouth invisible rock singer cowboy
*
I’m rereading Catcher in the Rye and tonight’s music conjures Salinger. Short stories in sonic form. Graney loves intertextuality—his song Warren Oates nods to Sam Peckinpah’s Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia—and I make my own connections.
Holden Caulfield’s narration comes to mind
He wrote this terrific book of short stories, The Secret Goldfish, in case you never heard of him. The best one in it was “The Secret Goldfish.” It was about this little kid that wouldn’t let anybody look at his goldfish because he’d bought it with his own money. It killed me.
*
Irony works best on Thursdays.
Certainly not Mondays. Fittingly, we are at The Wheaty on a Thursday, Valentine’s Day eve. Our musical host, Dave Graney doesn’t weaponize irony, he seduces us with it.
How does his appearance amplify this? A dinner suit winking to the safari style. Moustache channelling the pencilled elegance of Clark Gable.
Completing the mythic persona, the hat.
Every so often his voice drifts to Sprechgesang— the German term for half-sung, half-spoken delivery. This elevates the irony.
Once, Graney woke up and immediately thought about how the American band Wilco can’t itself wonder vaguely about Wilco when he inescapably does. Is this American cultural hegemony? We then hear Wilco Got No Wilco.
Festival favourites – out of shape guys in denim Happy to be home – happy to be there Romans! Legionnaires! We saw the white sails
Between songs he muses, ‘I have many guitars.’ Dave then turns to his wife Clare, behind her drum kit, and says, ‘Clare’s playing her B drum kit. The A kit’s home in the studio.’
Turning to the bassist, he asks, ‘Is this your A bass?’ Then, pre-emptively, with a flourish that borders the reverential and the sardonic: ‘It’s his John Cougar Mellencamp bass.’
*
Black Statesman ‘73
Caprice.
Leaded.
The thrilling opening of Feelin’ Kinda Sporty is a triumph of nostalgic parochialism. It’s as Australian as Skyhooks. Or Gough. Or begrudging affection for the Gold Coast.
Is Graney applauding that this marque gulped leaded (super) petrol? I hope so. I bet he once drove a lumpen V8.
What a car.
*
Out the back of The Wheaty we have an evening of wry storytelling. But it’s also an invitation—to view our prickly world through Graney’s secluded and exceptional window.
His lyrics suggest imagist poetry which originated a century ago: lean, distilled, potent.
Its famed example is Ezra Pound’s In a Station of the Metro. This two-line couplet captures a scene of bustling commuters waiting on a train platform:
The apparition of these faces in the crowd
Petals on a wet, black bough
*
Tonight, there are no girl meets boy stories. But there’s affection of a different, uncommon kind. Commemorations of the minor and minuscule. We take excursions into Graney’s head and its sometimes lurid, always lush, jungle.
The second song of the encore is Night of the Wolverine, featuring this cinematic pan. Memoir or fiction? It doesn’t matter.
Free beer and chicken man, and hotel rooms Hired cars, alligator boots A scarf over the lampshade Black tape over the window
Graney’s music chaperones us to places humid and strange—where the ceiling fan’s revolving slowly, ice clinks in a frosty tumbler, and irony is a welcome, surprising seductress.
The White Stripes are blasting from the stereo with drums pounding and guitar screaming.
There you are in your car, revving the engine, also disturbing the neighbourhood. Your casual confidence in the driver’s seat is both reassuring and mildly terrifying. It’s Tuesday evening, and you’ve been cleaning the interior: scraping off stubborn gunk, spraying the console, wiping the trim.
Suddenly, you’re a motorist and a car owner.
How did this happen? And why did we get here so quickly? Childhood, for the helplessly watching parent, is a succession of joyous and heartbreaking moments so fleeting, so enormous—that most of us are forever exhilarated and exhausted.
Regardless of these thoughts, your 2012 Ford Festiva will soon carry you away into your newly made world. And this is how it should be.
On Wednesday, you and Max are side by side at Pastagogo— or as I prefer to write it, in full Vintage Vegas style: Pasta-A-Go-Go. It’s been hugely positive for you both and you’re learning about hard work, the value of money (not quite there yet), teamwork, flexibility, and much more that will be useful across, let’s say, the next fifty years! In the meantime, go gently with the gnocchi.
I’ve a profoundly moving image of you on the back lawn, in the beanbag. It’s a summer’s morning during the last holidays and you’re reading a book. Not any book but the 500+ page magnus opus that is Donna Tartt’s The Secret History. Reading celebrated literature is hard. But the cognitive struggle is rewarding and has benefits in many different ways. It might take you a while but persevere, finish it and you’ll look back with an enduring sense of achievement.
Even more important than cars, pasta, and weighty novels are relationships. In these I see you growing in skill, self-awareness, and respect (mostly). Relationships are the beginning and ending of all the things in this life that are of value. I notice you learning and applying this to friends, work, love, and family. It makes me proud.
So, dear Alex, on your seventeenth birthday, I’m grateful for this moment, wistful about your fading childhood, and hugely excited for your future. Enjoy your last birthday as a secondary schooler.
This time in 2026 we’ll be looking back on Year 12. This will be a deeply significant event for you and I’m confident you’ll shape it into a remarkable one, bursting with learning, memories and life-changers.
I appreciated the experiences we shared during our visit to Sydney and from start to finish, our trip was filled with your curiosity, infectious enthusiasm, and so many moments of fun. You subscribed to each day and excursion with open hearts and minds and for this generosity, I thank you.
It began (intentionally) with our exploration of Circular Quay and the Opera House, followed by the awe-inspiring sight of Ovation of the Seas. Taking your debut ferry ride to Luna Park and walking back across the Harbour Bridge was an adventure in itself, and Alex and I enjoyed the thrill (terror for me) of climbing the Pylon lookout for those tremendous views over the harbour. From there, the stroll through Hyde Park to our accommodation provided the perfect balance of excitement and exercise!
All the while you’re both nattering away to each other; to me; talking about what’s in front of us, work at Pasta A Go Go—your sense of teamwork and camaraderie is impressive—and so much other stuff. I was constantly reassured by your brotherly relationship, and how you look out for each other. This joint resourcefulness shone when you returned from the op shops with your new finds. Shirts, pants, tops.
One particularly dramatic moment came in Bondi. Jumping off the bus onto the footpath, Alex immediately realised the problem. ‘Dad, I’ve left my video camera on the bus.’ The 333 omnibus promptly roared off down Campbell Parade—with the camera still on the back seat. I said, ‘You better run off after it!’ Watching you both dash off, cinematically, to catch the bus—and succeed about 500 metres later—was a heartwarming moment although Max hurt his calf (too many weights and insufficient cardio). I was reminded of Jason Statham in The Framer.
Though the weather tried to challenge us, it never dulled our eagerness. We then explored Bondi Pavilion’s art gallery and walked along the vacant beach up to Icebergs, marvelling at the raw beauty of the coastline, even in the abysmal conditions.
The opportunities for learning and reflection were abundant. From the Sydney Museum’s stories of the First Fleet and Indigenous history to the Museum of Contemporary Art’s powerful environmental themes, there was so much to absorb. I liked how you both were particularly captivated by the MCA’s bookshop if not the rebirthing film. Exploring The Rocks, Barangaroo, and the surrounding areas deepened our connection to Sydney’s geography and culture.
There were ferry rides aplenty too and how excellent are these?
A highlight was our trip to Balmain. Going along Darling Street was great, as was stopping by the Hill of Content bookshop, where Max picked up a Jack Reacher novel. It pleases me profoundly that you’re both happy to engage with ideas and writing—a bookshop hosts all of these. Our visit ended with schnitzels and T20 cricket from New Zealand at Dick’s Hotel—a perfect end to a day of discovery, despite the beer garden being closed due to storm damage.
Manly was another adventure entirely, with its jaw-dropping weather. We were bemused by the surf lifesaving carnival, witnessed the heaving ocean swell, and encountered a just fallen tree blocking our path on the way back.
As we bounced along on the ferry, Max’s Sam Pang-like quick wit in hoping the owners of a small boat, ‘hadn’t left any eggs on the kitchen bench’ was a moment of humour on the stormy seas. And though Alex’s new/old 49ers cap now resides in the Pacific, the voyage on the Manly Fast Ferry, especially past the Heads, was exhilarating. The skipper’s skill in navigating the massive waves was impressive.
Culminating with a salty coastal walk along Bondi, Tamarama, Bronte, Waverley, and Coogee— was a fitting finish to a shared adventure that was as scenic as it was fun.
A final stroll around Surrey Hills record stores and op shops. Flicking though the vinyl Alex paused and said, ‘Dad, here’s Skyhooks!’ There was the black lamb on the cover of Straight in a Gay, Gay World. He continued, ‘You’ve already got that one.’
Thank you for being a part of this experience. It’s an incredible destination that offers so much—beauty, history, learning, and exciting connections. Sydney gave us that and beyond. More vitally, you both offered your willing participation and your faith.
Alex, Max, and I were staying by Hyde Park so strode past twice daily going to and from Circular Quay.
The St James Station on Elizabeth Street is part of Sydney’s underground system. It’s my boys first visit to the Harbour City and I’ve not been there in over a decade. My previous time was a day trip for an (unsuccessful) interview.
It grabbed me instantly. As art, it’s beautiful and transportive to multiple personal destinations. It’s heritage listed (1938) and draws upon an Art Deco aesthetic. The pale blue of the Chateau Tanunda lettering and the Vintage Vegas orange tone of The Brandy of Distinction juxtaposed with the (formerly) white tiling. The neon colours are joyous and sentimental.
The station itself is mimicry of London’s Underground.
Staring at it from the edge of Hyde Park, I wondered about the naivete. Although dating from just prior to WW2, there’s an innocence at play. Over time do even the darkest of eras become prone to unsophistication? With the painterly mise en scène does it also evoke the often-quaint cinematography of Wes Anderson?
I thought about my own (brief) brandy drinking career. After cricket, and a meal in the Wudinna Club, my captain, Peter ‘Honey’ Boylan would often say, ‘Beer’s no good after a steak. I get too bloated. Buy you a brandy.’ I didn’t especially love nor hate it, but I’ve not had one since.
I do love the persistence of analogue clocks in railway stations despite the difficulties of moving parts, manually adjusting the time, and keeping all of them accurate. I read that railway station clocks, ‘provide optimal time awareness to patrons.’ The sign and the clock are pleasingly synchronous.
With the Barossa adjacent to my hometown of Kapunda, my parochial self was also activated. It makes me proud that Tanunda’s conspicuous in Sydney and I feel a swell of nostalgia for growing up. Is it true that the older many of us become, the more magical appears our childhood? This neon display in Sydney certainly had this effect.
Of course none of this mattered to my boys who were impatient to get over to Luna Park. I tore myself away, but the image stayed with me.
In this bejewelled alpha city with curving harbour views, this is a gently magical interior vista.
A waterfall of noise is tumbling off the balcony of The Colley.
From the footpath I cannot see our spot, but the sonic assault means it’s already unappealing despite the promised view across Moseley Square and the twinkling ocean.
We’ve a table booked.
Claire and I are here to talk over a couple beers with dear old friends, Bazz and Annie, Paul and Ali, and Mozz and Kath.
During the previous month I made multiple calls to The Colley to reserve and confirm our balcony booking. Mystery Pub* demands administrative effort especially as tonight we’ve special guests. An email was promised by the pub on each occasion.
Nothing bothered my expectant inbox.
Racing towards the Colley’s stairs (you know what I mean) we’re stopped by the authoritative hand of a bouncer. Black trousers, straining shirt and ancient Nikes block our path. ‘There’s no thongs in here, sorry.’
No thongs in a beachside pub?
It’s like making a po-faced demand that all who come to your Sunday BBQ wear a collar and tie.
No mention of this during any of my careful phone calls or those sweetly literate and informative emails that the pub never feckin’ sent.
Just a short time ago, the Colley had a different name, and the front bar gleefully threw open its doors around dawn, welcoming in all every ratty type for whom thongs were aspirational wedding attire. There wasn’t even a ‘No shoes, no service’ sign.
We’ve promoted our gathering as Mystery Pub* and suddenly for Claire and me it is too. I panic: where will we go? The Moseley? Rush around to the Broady? Surely not the Watermark!
On the Mystery Pub* satisfaction scale the Colley scores 3/100.
Like a trusty old B grade footballer, the Grand could be the last chance saloon. We stride down there past Mama Carmela’s (serving Italian cuisine since 1974). Security waves us in, the (evidently) unspeakable horror of our menacing thongs (used by FBI profilers as a key indicator of future trouble) in full sight.
It’s quiet (sort of), so we claim a table by a front window. Outside, the pines are buffeted by the stiff wind. Yes, it’s much better here than on the (moronically pretentious) pub balcony back up the street.
Paul and Ali are back from Abu Dhabi, and we hear of their plans. For them, too, they’re racing towards retirement. How did this happen? Minutes ago, it was the New Year’s Eve of 1994, and they were getting married on a hot afternoon in Kimba.
Mozz and Kath are here from Pinnaroo, having driven up for the night. On Sunday Mozz reaches a landmark (pension) birthday. This prompts much discussion about their intentions. As always, what do these things also mean for us?
Annie and Bazz now live in Moonta Bay with their dog, Reggie, and some (non-laying) chooks. We’re all here for a Christmas drink (not the chooks). Bazz, Annie, Ali, Kath, and Claire gather around the table and chat away. Our group variously enjoys Pirate Life, sparkling white and shiraz among other refreshments.
Mozz, Paul and I are on our feet by the windows. In groups, I like to stand in the pub. It seems more conducive to conversation. We discuss superannuation, work, and our offspring before moving to travel.
‘How’d you find Geelong?’ I ask Mozz.
‘A bit subdued. Not much going on. Pubs were unremarkable.’
I offer, ‘I liked the yacht club but didn’t see much else. The waterfront looked good.’
Our discussion migrates to Melbourne. ‘Jed’s a big North Melbourne fan so last visit we went to Arden Street,’ Paul suggests. ‘Walked straight in off the street. Sensational.’
‘Footy’s everywhere there. I love it.’ I note of the Victorian capital.
After an hour we’re done. We’re all heading around home so on the way, pizza’s collected.
There’s nothing quite like the deep enveloping comfort of old friends. Moving through our decades and across the country and planet, we’ve maintained connections. Our veranda chat’s funny and warmhearted and familiar.
Not an ideal time to visit a bakery and expect the full range of offerings.
I ask, ‘Can I have a sausage roll?’
‘We’ve only got the cheese and bacon ones left.’
‘Yes, that’s fine thanks,’ I reply although it’s not my preference.
It’s Wednesday and I’m in Tanunda, at the highly recommended Apex Bakery, just off Murray Street and on the way to the town oval.
*
As a Kapunda Bomber I played in an Under 15’s football final against Tanunda. It was close all match. The full back had kicked out well, and late in the last quarter we got a rushed behind. As he prepared to kick the footy back in, I was on the mark just outside the goal square. There wasn’t much time left.
It was a fine late August morning and I put my arms up and to the surprise of everyone at Dutton Park the fullback miskicked it straight onto my chest! Still in shock I put the ball back over his dismayed head for the lead. Shaking his hand after the siren, I felt sorry for my Magpie opponent, but we’d won and advanced to the next week. We didn’t go top.
*
Taking my seat outside the Apex Bakery I slide out the lunch. It’s certainly had too long waiting quietly in the warmer. A lazy car eases past. My cheese and bacon sausage roll is sweaty, limp, and weary, like I imagine most of us would be! However, it’s the perfect size— not too big or small. Those with serious girth and length like an axe handle are making a feeble attempt to disguise the limited taste and aroma. I take a bite.
*
Growing up I had occasional Saturday nights at the Tanunda drive-in. I recall seeing—or not seeing— Wargames,Octopussy and Porky’s! But I also remember after it closed in the 80’s the site became the Barossa Junction, complete with railway carriages.
On Thursday nights there was free beer for a couple hours to entice people to the Junction disco. One summer evening a few of us went across from Kapunda in my mate’s old Alfa Romeo. We applied ourselves vigorously, but I don’t remember there being much dancing on those nights…
Before we knew it, the free beer nights were over.
*
My sausage roll was tasty with delicate smoky bacon flavours combined with gooey cheese. It had subtle filling but again it would’ve been best eaten around midday. I enjoyed it to a degree but knew it wasn’t at its best. It was probably like listening to a much-loved band’s new album but with only the left speaker working.
With memories of footy, drive-ins, and those fleeting free-beer nights swirling in my head, I head for Nuri, ready for a coffee with Mum and Dad.
I’ll return soon and try the sausage rolls again. We’re all entitled to redemption, especially underage Tanunda fullbacks.
It’s a bright day and there’s optimism everywhere; ideal to begin the summer of Test cricket. The city by Corio Bay’s vibrant and cheerful people stream up and down the waterfront. I’m dining with eight chaps, and we’re all connected by the communal and effervescent Footy Almanac. Today’s lunch is all about conversation: a delightful jumble of 1970’s SANFL, Gough, and the far-flung places we’ve lived from Darwin to Tassie to England.
*
I love cricket. I love going to Adelaide Oval and feeling its captivating pull as I cross the Torrens footbridge. I love watching it on TV—especially when Tim Lane’s commenting. But cricket on the car radio is a unique joy. Following the Geelong lunch, I’m driving back to Point Lonsdale, and I poke at the hire car’s screen and get Australia v India on. The first session’s underway, and I’m eight again. Through the speakers flows the crowd noise with its comforting hum, the whip crack of willow on leather, even the aural assurance of the hyperventilating commentators with their, ‘Starc in, bowls… Big noise! There’s a shout…’
It’s as summery as slamming screen doors, fish and chips by the beach, and those ticking nights when it’s still thick and pizza-oven hot at midnight.
*
We’re here as Claire’s the Auslan interpreter for the Queenscliff Music Festival (the Auslan). Murray Wiggle and Jeff Wiggle are doing a DJ set. Claire gets a backstage photo and chats with them. Her brother Geoff knows both and decades ago they were all in a band. In the big tent young troubadour Jack Botts is playing his wistful guitar pop, and Murray’s just in front of me with his shoulders like a rangy country footballer. I imagine him somewhere like Angaston pulling in a few casual grabs at centre-half forward. As he takes in the music, there’s a ceaseless trickle of fans and he’s kind to all, smiling for a selfie, offering each a few minutes. It’s lovely to see.
*
Saturday morning and I’m in Portarlington for their park run. It’s a quarter to eight and the air is dense and unmoving. Gathering by a tree on a gravel path we’re alongside Port Phillip Bay and just under a hundred of us set off. Ambling along, I peer through the close murk and see the Melbourne CBD, a silhouette of grey and black and imposing quiet. There are dual hills to finish the course, but these are gentler than I’d heard. Making my way back to Point Lonsdale I listen to 3RRR and drive through Indented Head and St. Leonards. Both are daggy—unpretentious and a little outdated—but hugely appealing.
*
Watching Claire perform at the festival is a joy given her distinctive skill and focus. It’s mesmerising and humbling for I understand not a single sign. She interprets for CW Stoneking, a Katherine native who adopts a Southern persona complete with Mississippi drawl. He plays hypnotic blues music that could be a century old. Backstage, Claire asked him to explain one of his lyrics, and he replied, ‘I don’t know what it means.’ Sometimes, on stage when speaking between songs, he slips briefly, almost imperceptibly, back into his Territorian accent.
*
Other mornings in Point Lonsdale I run along the beach or through town. The town oval hugs the bay, and an underage cricket match is underway. The pitch is Gabba grass. Most of the players are in whites but the batsman’s in jeans. Nostalgia pricks at me as I pass. I also run west past the lighthouse and down onto the endless beach. I don’t usually run on the sand, instead preferring an esplanade but this morning’s forced path’s a revelation. Rather than being by the beach, and a spectator to the surf, I’m a participant. The waves are closer, their roar is louder and the air’s muggier. I’m now converted to sand running, immersed rather than observing, and it feels enlivening—physically and spiritually. Vast cargo ships pull themselves sluggishly in and out of the bay.
*
Monday, we zig and zag across the peninsula through towns like Clifton Springs and Wallington. It seems to function like the Fleurieu: a relaxed retreat for the neighbouring city folk. We take our lunch at the Rolling Pin bakery in Ocean Grove. My pie is massive and collapses on my plate, so I collect a knife and fork. Claire’s baked good is more cooperative. A PE teacher tramps in, local primary school polo shirt on, a Cleveland Cavaliers lanyard dangling, and a silver ring of keys jingling in his pocket.
The attendant mythology grew when he announced his molted skin was being kept in a bedside cup. For some days he’d been adding to his store of discarded epidermis. Happily, his flesh was less burnt than another friend who was hospitalised after a scorching, shirtless day at the cricket.
But one afternoon we returned to the Sydney apartment and from Brendan’s room there were shouts of horror. ‘No, no, no!’ Someone, likely Woodsy or Swanny, rushed to his aid. ‘We’ve been burgled,’ he cried, ‘Someone’s stolen my cup of skin.’
We’d all enjoyed many days together during cricket season at the Adelaide Oval so welcomed a Day/Night fixture against Sri Lanka. Earlier that day Claire and Trish arrived by train, and joined Chrisso, Woodsy, Swanny, Trev, Paul, Stephen, Brendan, and me. The girls had an epic adventure, and they’d already been to Ballarat, and Melbourne.
It’d be our collective SCG cricket debut. We won and the eternally salvaging AB made 79, while the eternally angry RM Hogg took 4/47. It was punishingly hot, and even our eyeballs sweated as we sat in front of the mammoth scoreboard on their Hill.
Like Sydney itself, it was fun and filmic in scale and more vivid than conservative Adelaide. Leaving, the Hill was a graveyard for countless, abandoned thongs. It seemed to be where all rubber footwear went to die. ‘Hey, you,’ smiled Claire and promptly whacked me on the leg with a thong. She was always doing stuff like that.
Back at the Gem, it was so humid the dew was draped on the roof and windows as if there’d been a monsoon. What a strange, sultry country Sydney was! It was also the era of Derek and Clive, so waiting for the traffic, Stephen, Trish, Claire, and I listened to those horrendously drunk British men known properly as Dudley Moore and Peter Cook.
…he come up with the name of ‘John Stitch’. He come up to me. He said, “I’m John Stitch and I, I do non-stop dancing.”
Trish laughed in that bright, instantly infectious way that always amplified the fun of the joke. We cackled as if we’d never previously heard a word of it. As is her way, Claire didn’t get why we were snorting and giggling so we’d take turns explaining. Often this was unsuccessful.
*
Specialising in jazz, The Basement is an iconic music venue, essential for anyone wanting to immerse themselves in Sydney’s culture. We went along one night, just to take it in. Vince Jones, Don Burrows, or Galapagos Duck weren’t playing, and while this was disappointing, it was something we did in our unquenchable desire to extract what we could from this alpha metropolis. I can’t remember the music but the distillation of memory remains: we saw live music at The Basement.
Later, crossing the Harbour Bridge, we climbed up inside a pylon to take in the panoramic sweep of the city. As we gazed down at the traffic and water, some (me) were fearful of heights, while others like Paul (assisted by being in the Air Force) and Brendan (assisted by being unfathomable) welcomed the flirtation with the deathly descent.
The Centrepoint Tower also afforded dizzying views and at the top I was a screen showing how many centimeters the tower swayed in the wind. I don’t recall the number, only my deep, unsettling fear. I didn’t like it.
Varied groups visited Luna Park, Taronga Zoo, the Moore Park Golf Club, Manly Beach, and Kings Cross where a burly bouncer asked us, ‘Is this your first time in the Cross?’ to which Woodsy replied with nodding honesty, ‘Yes!’
Then, in The Rocks, we stumbled upon a Rolls Royce, its blue elegance gleaming like a jewel. The licence plate declared a single word: Kamahl. It seemed an odd name for a car, but we later realised this referred to its singing owner! We stood by it, all thin limbs and emergent irony. His music meant nothing to us, but he was famous, and this regal car added a sparkle to our kaleidoscopic view of the city.
*
Beach culture was inescapable in Sydney. Courtesy of the 2Day FM radio surf updates and Stephen’s knowledge — as an air traffic controller he’d lived there a while — Curl Curl Beach presented itself to us as a (satirical) pilgrimage. Open to all things local, we ventured there simply because we could. A couple of carloads headed, en convoy, over the Bridge, through the leafy streets of Mossman and past painterly Manly.
We didn’t even swim at Curl Curl — something about the waves didn’t look overly inviting and we carried fresh scars from Bondi — but did pose for a photo by the modest brown sign. Chrisso snapped it, and while Paul and Brendan lingered to the side, it captured us at that exact instant: young and fresh-faced and with our categorically eighties hair.
In the photo a tanker drags itself across the horizon while below us in the carpark is the now retro cool of an EJ Holden. It has roof racks so likely is anticipating the return of its surfer-owner. Claire and I are the bookends. Huddled close together are Stephen, Swanny, Woodsy, Trish, and Trev, their faces now fuzzy, washed in the soft, faded colours of the photo. It projects a wistful affection, a feeling that belongs to the past, even as it unfolds.
Gleefully oblivious, we were on the edge of things — not just a shallow cliff at Curl Curl.
We were untouched by the weight of the world, and unburdened. A modern view might be that we were merely living in the moment. We were about to plunge into adulthood, but that morning, standing above the beach, responsibility was as distant as Vladivostok.
A twentysomething birthday gift from Claire and Trish, a block-mounted copy of this photo now sits on my desk. It reminds me quietly of my privileged youth and favourite people. I don’t have a witty or poignant story about that visit to North Curl Curl and I’m perfectly content with that. What does it mean to look back and know that we were unaware of how precious those days would become?
What matters is the warmth of attachment and love that stays, how this now blurry image, taken decades ago on an East Coast beach, has come to embody our teenage years — our abundant fortune, and the deep connection we shared in Kapunda.
This summer, I’ll look at the photo again, and, outrageously and sadly, it will be forty years since our Sydney trip. Time moves like that — faster than we ever expect. One day soon, I’ll go for a drive, pick up Trev, and put on Midnight Oil.
After lunch, he might announce, ‘I’ll just get a nut sundae.’
Chrisso- ridiculously smart, dry of wit Woodsy- upbeat, an enthusiast Trev- funny, beyond naughty Swanny- convivial, night-owl Paul- plain speaker, machine-gun laugh Stephen- our host, gentle Brendan- enigmatic, fatigued by the stupidity of others Trish- quick to laugh, dramatic Claire- cute but required explanations for most jokes The Gem- Stephen’s bright green Holden Gemini Your correspondent- always first asleep, silly.
*
The girl pointed at Chrisso but spoke to all four of us.
‘Are youse from England?’ We’d done a 900k day and here we were in West Wylong (pop – 2,500 odd) and some girls thought we were British. She was barefoot and continued. ‘Youse have got an accent.’ Someone, probably Trev said, ‘No, we’re from South Australia. Kapunda.’ He may have then added, ‘Where they have hot cars.’
We were a long way from home and here was an indicator of how wide the world was.
Idle chat with locals done, we decamped to our onsite caravan. I doubt there was a TV, radio, or home cinema. So, in that time-honoured way we inhaled pizza — likely ham and pineapple; mercifully eggplant hadn’t been invented — and the national beer which is now rarer than rocking-horse droppings; Foster’s Lager. I’m trusting it was from the Royal Hotel on Main Street (true; look it up).
We sat at the tiny table, and I’m quite sure, said things silly and then things sillier. This was best illustrated by Woodsy saying to me, ‘Your face is red,’ and catching his reflection in a mirror, then asking, ‘Aren’t I?’
Aside from the Foster’s Lager, on the trek to Sydney there was only one injury. As he slept in the back, Woodsy had a bad dream (doubtless being naked in a public place), threw out his leg, and cut his toe on the driver’s seat assembly. Ouch.
The next morning, we went through Bathurst, and all took turns driving the famous circuit. Speaking of hot cars from Kapunda, we were in Woodsy’s Datsun 180B. Bathurst was far steeper than imagined — TV tends to flatten these things — and as we whizzed along Conrod Straight at 140k, the little Japanese vehicle must’ve sounded like an oversized, determined mosquito.
*
The following tradition began, I think, in Katoomba.
We called into Macca’s, had lunch (two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles…), and leaping up from our red chairs, were keen to finish that final leg, and motor to Stephen’s. We were Sydney bound!
I pushed open the door when Trev announced suddenly, ‘I’ll just get a nut sundae.’ And so he did. We watched him eat it. Every deliberate mouthful. Some would say Trev ate it with a Zen approach. Some would say it was excruciating. It was a scene from a future Tarantino movie where characters chat in pop culture but strangely menacing ways before most are messily dispatched.
Regardless, once Trev eventually finished, the little plastic container could’ve been immediately and hygienically reused. Not a speck of sundae remained. Across the trip and indeed, the years, when we were halfway back to the car after a meal, we’d often hear Trev declare, ‘I’ll just get a nut sundae!’
Having passed the medical following his toe injury, Woodsy was ruled fit to drive. Back behind the wheel and with Sydney tantalisingly close, he chirped, ‘Let’s get there!’ and out into the honking traffic lurched the little Datsun. From the rear Chrisso murmured, in that distinctive Chrisso way, ‘Yeah, let’s get there.’
*
As a Kapunda kid, Bondi was among the most thrilling places I’d been.
The boisterous, teeming crowds on that striking, sandy crescent! With my saltwater swimming mostly restricted to gentle Glenelg and Horseshoe Bay, the Pacific was intimidating. The surf was enormous with towering waves rolling in and dumping us, metronomically. We bodysurfed and it was exhilarating but we were all dragged into a brutal rip.
Late afternoon with the marching breakers crashing on our heads, Trev and I tried to stand there and ignore the swell, mock-heroically. Amusing ourselves tremendously, we had the most mundane conversation as the azure walls collapsed onto us.
‘Yeah, I reckon Weetbix is the best breakfast cereal,’ I said, just as a massive wave nearly swept us off our feet.
‘Don’t forget CoCo Pops®,’ Trev added, as another tonne of blue-green water dumped onto us.
‘Cornflakes are overrated,’ I evaluated, fighting for balance.
*
It was also the summer of Midnight Oil.
They were everywhere and our unofficial soundtrack to Sydney. One of their early songs, ‘Section 5 (Bus to Bondi)’ became an anthem for us. In the carpark overlooking Bondi Beach we all heaved ourselves at Stephen’s silent, rolling car — known with great affection as the Gem; short for Gemini — in a theatrical, utterly unnecessary attempt to jump the engine into ‘life.’ Onlookers gawked as we performed our dramatic tribute, the song blasting from the open windows
Push start that car tomorrow I’ll take it to the tip yard We’ll leave it as a metal wreck For cats to sleep Then I’ll catch the bus to Bondi Swim the beach and wonder Who can wear the fashion when The place is oh so hot
It felt like a scene from an arthouse film — but possibly not. Back then, we excelled at amusing ourselves.
*
Stephen lived in a high-rise apartment in the inner suburb of Drummoyne.
He’d been joined by our somewhat mysterious friend, Brendan, who’d abandoned his law degree and moved to the Harbour City. During our stay Brendan introduced us to British post-punk band, The The and such is this legacy that Swanny and I are seeing them later this month.
Like Hugh Hefner or The Dude, he seemed incessantly attired in his dressing gown, and with his nocturnal leanings, translucent face, and Morrissey-like melancholy, Brendan was more Manchester than Manly Beach. He was the most cynical person I’d met. He was already fatigued and world-weary. He was twenty.
Meanwhile, we grew a green mountain of empty beer cans in Stephen’s lounge room. It was an especially adolescent achievement, and the ring pulls from the cans were strung into lengthy chains and festooned about the flat like bogan Christmas tinsel. I guess they were. These were christened by Swanny, I think, as ‘Ring Mans.’
*
Sydney was an exciting but principally alien city. Unlike Adelaide, it was lush and brazen, seductive and dangerous. There was water everywhere. The Western Distributor — a bold, elevated boulevard — led us in and out of the city, curving dramatically above the buildings below.
On a sharp bend in Darling Harbour, a huge advertising billboard swam into cinematic view. And every time it demanded a theatrical response. It warned us with a menacing image straight from the film, Arachnophobia, of the threat we needed to take with extreme seriousness: Funnel web spiders! This was worrying. Home, we had friendly huntsmen. Our routine soon became that when the large, hairy arthropod came into startling sight — all beady, black eyes and dripping fangs — we’d shriek in chorus, led, of course, by Trev!
EEEEEEKKKKK! FUNNIES!
Paul and Swanny drove from Kapunda in Paul’s VK Brock Commodore. When they arrived, we were out, so with no mobile phones — those only existed on The Jetsons — they exercised their only option: wait in the grounds of the apartment block. With a slab of VB but no ice. They braved the beer. Back then simmering lager held no fears.
Now, there were six of us crammed into Stephen’s compact lounge room. We flopped about, foul boys in our now-illegal adidas shorts which revealed many things about us and none of them were healthy. The trapped odour must’ve been monstrous with lager, pizza, humidity, and ripe adolescence. Belated thanks, dear Stephen for your tolerance.
But, gee, it was fun.
Among the many delights was playing cricket in the hot and plush surrounds at Drummoyne Oval. Bare-footed and juggling beers, we batted and bowled and laughed, surrounded by all that sky and all that cobalt water. The details of the cricket don’t matter, but I recall the white picket fence, our lazy bliss, and VB in naval quantities.
It was another golden moment, and these stretched across that endless summer.
Jeff the goat lived in Tiger Mountain State Forest near Seattle. He had a long, white, wispy beard and he played a guitar and sang.
Well, sort of.
When Jeff strummed his guitar and sang the bears and the cougars and even the fish in the streams would flee. He was truly, utterly, completely awful and the noise was like someone had thrown a bicycle into a nasty crushing machine.
Twangy-bangy-bah-boo-burr-chomp-crunch! Jeff played it again. He liked the sound of it. ‘Gee, I’m so good,’ Jeff said to himself.
Twangy-bangy-bah-boo-burr-chomp-crunch! Right then, two bears, four cougars and even the slowest fish in the Tiger Mountain State Forest fled.
Suddenly, Jeff stopped playing his guitar. He cleared his goaty throat and his long, white, wispy beard drifted about in the breeze. Turning to his goat-sister Peggy he declared in a squeaky, goaty voice, “I am going to Seattle to be a famous guitarist!”
Peggy’s goaty eyes widened. “Oh, no Jeff. You can’t go! Your home is here in Tiger Mountain State Forest.” A tear ran down her goaty face towards her long, white, wispy beard. Peggy gulped, “I’ll miss you. Please stay here with me.”
Jeff reared up onto his back two legs and in his squeaky goat voice he shouted, “I am going to be a famous guitarist, and no one can stop me. Especially not you Peggy!”
And with a huff Jeff the Goat scrambled away, his hooves click-clacking on the rocks.
He did not look back at his sister Peggy. Her long, wispy, white beard was drenched with tears.
The air was fresh, and the sun sent down golden shafts of warm light as Jeff trotted along the track. In the distance he heard a bear growl and Jeff shouted to the sky, “You don’t worry me Mr Bear for I’m going to Seattle to be a famous guitarist!” He laughed and lifted his goaty hooves higher and faster. Fame and fortune would soon be his!
Goat-scurrying along Jeff stopped by a sign and read it aloud. ‘Poo Poo Point Hiking Trail!’ His beard danced in the crisp mountain breeze. ‘I’m going the right way if I’m on Poo Poo Point Hiking Trail. I’m close.’
Over the trees Jeff saw a shiny tower stretching towards the clouds. ‘Yes,’ he yelled, ‘The Seattle Space Needle! I’ll play my guitar and sing to celebrate.”
The noise was so horrid that two sparrows flew away. They didn’t stop until they landed on the North Pole. Jeff didn’t hear them flap away as he was smiling at his own song. He trotted on.
Friday night in Seattle and cars honked their horns, and the neon lights blinked and shone.
Jeff the goat’s long, white, wispy beard quivered with excitement for in precisely twenty-eight minutes he’d be on Seattle’s Got Talent! He could taste the sweet taste of fame and fortune in his goaty mouth.
A voice boomed out. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, all the way from Tiger Mountain State Forest, will you please give it up for Jeeeeeeeefffffffff the gooooooooaaaaaat!’
The curtains drew back. The lights burned into his beady, blinky, goaty eyes and Jeff knew he’d win.
Twangy-bangy-bah-boo-burr-chomp-crunch! Twangy-bangy-bah-boo-burr-chomp-crunch! Now, the crowd at Seattle’s Got Talent was generous and happy but even they had a limit. The windows exploded at the horrible noise.
Twangy-bangy-bah-boo-burr-chomp-crunch! The stage curtains blew away.
Twangy-bangy-bah-boo-burr-chomp-crunch! The lights went dark.
It was so truly, utterly, completely awful that the crowd couldn’t even boo. Jeff the guitar-playing goat was finished. He knew he wouldn’t enjoy fame and fortune.
Pushing open the back door of Seattle’s Got Talent, Jeff stepped into the drizzly alleyway.
‘Oh, Jeff,’ a goaty voice squeaked from beneath a streetlight. ‘Can I give you a hug?’
It was Peggy.
‘Oh, Peggy. I’m so sorry.’ Jeff put his hooves around his goat-sister. ‘I’ve made such a fool of myself, and I was horrible to you.’
Both their long, white, wispy beards were wet with rain and tears.
Peggy smiled at her brother. ‘It’s OK. Tiger Mountain State Forest and the bears, the cougars and even the fish have missed you. Let’s go home.’
mickeytales 